


There was a time you had it made (Everything was going your way)

by derevko_child



Series: The Juliet Series [3]
Category: Dollhouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M, Gen, juliet - Freeform, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derevko_child/pseuds/derevko_child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, maybe this is the time to stop asking questions. The flimsy explanation that all Actives are volunteers is being blown out of the water every time she answers his questions. He doesn’t need this. Not now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You might be wondering why I asked to talk to you.”

He is. After what happened today, he doesn’t really know what to expect.

“Take a seat, Mr. Dominic.”

The Head of the LA Dollhouse, a voluptuous woman with thick brown hair and clear blue eyes gives him a polite and a rather empty smile as he sits down in front of her. They’re in the Head of Security’s office, and it’s empty, except for the two of them.

Laurence watches as she rummages through the desk drawers. After a few seconds, she finally finds what she’s searching for—a bottle of Scotch and an empty glass.

“Drink?”

He shakes his head. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She fills the glass halfway through before drinking it in one gulp.

“You’ve heard about what happened to our former Head of Security?” she asks as she puts the glass down on the table.

He opens his mouth to answer, but she cuts him off, “What was I thinking; naturally, you’ve heard of it. Secrets don’t stay secrets for long in this place.” He can hear bitterness in her tone.

He doesn’t say anything. She’s obviously angry; there is no need to aggravate her.

She pours herself another glass and leans back on the chair. She looks at him and raises the drink to her lips to take another sip before asking, “how would you have handled the situation?”

He blinks. What? “Excuse me?” he replies.

“I know you heard me the first time, Mr. Dominic,” she says, gesturing with her free hand. “How would you have handled the situation? When Topher comes running in, telling you – the Head of Security – that he found _alien_ technology in his chair. What would you have done?”

Okay, so he might not have expected that.

He stares at her and she, once again, leans back against the leather chair.

For a few minutes, Laurence doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know what to say. Is she for real?

“Mr. Dominic, why should you be the new Head of Security of the LA Dollhouse?”

 

_Several hours earlier…_

“Morning, Dom.”

He looks up and sees Ramirez entering the lounge.

“Look who’s chipper today,” he remarks, bringing the coffee mug to his lips. It’s his second cup of the morning and, even though their lounge is Spartan and feels more like an armory than a place to relax, he’s got to admit that they have excellent coffee.

Ramirez goes to the espresso machine (yes, they have those here, surprise) and gets a cup for herself before sliding down in the seat beside him. “I got my initial schedule for the week,” she says. “And I have another date with Ms. Lonelyhearts. Today.”

“Don’t you like that?” he asks, briefly glancing at the newspaper on the table. “You get more slow time outside.”

Ramirez scoffs, “Yeah. In a van, watching Victor’s vital stats go through the roof because he’s got the hots for some wrinkly, creaky Septuagenarian in a walker.”

The thought of Victor romancing a very old woman who can barely walk brings a grimace to his face. “Nice imagery," he says dryly.

Ramirez stands up and takes her coffee with her. “Thanks. I like to spread the joy around.” She says in a conspiratorial tone. “Gotta go.”

He gets the newspaper when Ramirez leaves and quickly scans through the pages. After a few minutes, he checks his watch and finishes his coffee before leaving for the facility.

~*~

Ivy takes a deep breath as Juliet takes a seat in the chair. She then turns towards the computers and as she starts to type, the chair tilts downwards.

“First time Topher let you touch his toys, Ivy?” he asks.

“Yep," she answers, almost absent-mindedly.

Topher slides into the view. "Just for the day, man-friend," he says. “Or maybe until I finish fixing this. Bullets," he explains with a flick of his hands. “Not exactly compatible with the chair.”

The programmer stands up and wipes his hands on his pants. “How ya doing, Dom? I never really saw you after you brought back Juliet from her _self-guided_ journey.”

Laurence glances at his Active in the Chair. “Costley gave me three days off for my efforts to save her from herself,” he answers simply. He had lied about what had transpired in that house and decided to go along with what they had initially assumed. It’s not as if Juliet can tell them what happened.

“Niiice. You can be one of those, you know, people at the other end of the suicide hotlines," Topher says with a grin.

Ivy gives him a look. “Suicide is a serious matter, Topher.”

The man-child pauses just for a split second before resuming his conversation with him. “So, this imprint came from Washington, made by Bennett Halverson himself,” he says with the enthusiasm of a kid. “Suffice to say you and the imprint have met.”

“Her?” The imprint with no name. “Again?” This is the sixth time. The client specifically wanted the imprint to be made by the Washington Dollhouse, to Topher’s annoyance—a blow to his ego, no doubt. But then again, every time the name Bennett Halverson’s mentioned he starts gushing like a little girl, so, maybe not.

The chair stops whirring and he stands at attention.

Juliet sits up and opens her eyes.

“Ma’am,” he greets and takes a sideway step towards the door.

She blinks and glances around. He sees confusion passing over her face, but she quickly masks it. “Good morning, Mister…” she trails off, not completing her greeting. Because unlike her other imprints, this one doesn’t seem to get updated every time the wedge returns to the Washington house,

“Please forgive me,” she says, tilting her head to the side. She’s perfectly poised with a matching posh British accent. “But I can’t seem to remember your name.”

“It’s Dominic, ma’am,” he says and motions to the door. “Shall we…?”

She slides off the chair, ever so elegantly. “Of course.”

He notices Topher giving him a funny look. He ignores him, as always, and follows Juliet (Ma’am) out of the room.

~*~

“Hello, Dominic,” Franklin greets him. “And who are we today?” he asks Juliet (as he always does) as Dominic hands him the work order. Franklin gives it a quick read and whistles. “Hello, Ms. She-Who-Has-No-Name,” he says before giving them a flamboyant flick of a hand.

“Oh, you.” Franklin gives Juliet the once-over, “Always so serious. Give it all back to Mr. Dominic. Serious suits him better.” Franklin then gives him an exaggerated wink and returns his attention to Juliet, “This is Tanya. She’s at your beck and call.”

Juliet looks at him before following Tanya to the back. He then proceeds to one of the chairs. Ramirez is seated at the far end of the room and seems to be reading a trashy magazine.

He grabs a National Geographic and sits at the other end of the room. He sighs and leans back on the wall. It takes an hour, more or less, for Juliet to finish whatever it is they do in there.

Victor steps out from the dressing room, wearing a three-piece suit. The Active turns to Ramirez and strikes a pose.

“How do I look, Ms. Ramirez?” he asks. He takes the rose Karen hands to him. “Thank you,” he says with a smile. Topher really dumped all the suave and the charisma he could find into this personality— the Doll’s practically a one-woman James Bond.

He hears Ramirez sigh in annoyance. “Ready to go, lover boy?” she asks.

“Yes, of course,” Victor says.

“Bye, Rooooger,” Franklin calls to him.

Laurence doesn’t tear his eyes off the magazine. He could do away with the imagery of Victor getting it on with an old lady.

He’s reading the fourth article when he hears Juliet’s voice getting louder. He puts down the magazine and stands up. This personality isn’t the type to waste time.

“Thank you, Tanya.” She walks out of the dressing area. Her hair is down and she’s wearing a dark blue dress made out of… something shiny he’s forgotten what it’s called; he could ask Franklin, but he’d probably get a lecture about every fabric known to man) and a pair of really high heels.

“Mr. Dominic?” She turns to him half-expectantly as Tanya assists her with putting on her coat. Laurence notes that she’s almost as tall as he is as she walks towards his position.

He doesn’t say anything and leads the way out.

~*~

This is the nth time the gray, noisy, static lines have appeared on the monitors, completely blocking Juliet’s vital stats. He’s tried fixing it by asking the driver to drive the van out of the underground parking, but their location isn’t the problem.

She has a romantic engagement, which means there aren’t any real threats (unless the client turns out to be a psycho killer, like what happened in Echo’s engagement), but it doesn’t hurt to check the computer once in a while, especially since she asked him to watch her back.

Laurence takes his phone and presses the speed dial to Topher’s office.

_“Whoever you are, I’m busy.”_

The greeting immediately makes his temper flare. “Well, if that’s the case, you shouldn’t be answering the damn phone.”

_“It’s something of a second nature to me, Snarly Gnarly Man. Phone rings, I pick it up.”_

“My signal’s getting interferences. The monitor’s getting static every few minutes.”

_“Not-o my problem-o.”_

Times like these are times when he seriously wished he was in the same room as Topher so that he could throttle him with his bare hands.

_“And besides, it’s a romantic engagement. Echo gets all the creeps, so, chill.”_

His cheek twitches. “Fine,” he growls, knowing too well that the programmer’s right. “But fix this.”

_“Okay. Fine. Gotta go.”_

With insolence that only Topher can demonstrate, his call gets cut off. Laurence takes a deep breath before putting his phone down (gently) on the metal desk and then hitting the side of the monitor. The static hisses and then goes out, giving him a clear screen.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the monitor for a few minutes. Juliet’s calm; no action in this front as of yet.

“Ryan, can we go back to where we were parked when we first got here?” he asks.

The engine revs up and the van starts moving.

~*~

“What are you doing, Dom?”

He doesn’t like it that people have started calling him Dom without even asking him if he wanted to be called Dom. But then, he supposes Dom is better than Larry. And Lorenzo.

“Crossword,” he answers and looks at the driver. Ryan doesn’t talk most of the time, but when he does open his mouth, he turns out to be an annoying prat.

“I’m playing Lemonade Tycoon on my phone.”

“That’s great,” he responds sarcastically and checks Juliet’s stats on the malfunctioning computer.

“Check it out. I’m year 3 in my lemonade stand business and we’re still in this underground garage. How boring is this life?”

He gives him a scathing glare, which immediately shuts the driver up. He glances at his watch before he tries finishing the newspaper crossword.

“I’m thinking of buying a taco from one of the stands on the street. Want one?” Ryan says, out of the blue.

Laurence doesn’t lift his head from the paper. “Now you’re breaching protocol.”

“Hey, we’ve been here almost six hours. I’m not like you, Dom. I ain’t a robot.” Ryan adds, “I won’t pee in a cup either. Do you want anything or not?”

He merely grunts a reply and then ignores him. Ryan starts to grumble while opening the driver’s side of the door and slamming it shut behind him.

When he’s alone, he puts down his pen and the newspaper and lets out a deep breath. It feels different doing this, after what happened in that house with Juliet. He’s quite sure she wasn’t a volunteer; the way she knew things suggests that she might have been connected to the Dollhouse before she became a doll.

To think that Rossum can basically force anyone to do their bidding is unsettling, but not surprising. The truth that they can get away with it, however, is the most horrifying part.

Laurence tries to shake away the thoughts from his head and turns his attention back to the crossword. When Ryan returns to the van, he still hasn’t figured out what the ten-letter word for a parasite living in the host’s tissues is.

“So I got you some tacos. And a large cup of iced tea so that you can pee in a large cup if ever we end up spending more than twelve hours in this place,” Ryan starts and puts a brown paper bag beside him. “You owe me five bucks.”

“Those are some expensive tacos.” He puts down the newspaper and digs out change from his pocket.  
His eyes fall back to the monitors. There’s been consistent interference with the equipment all day and complaining to Topher hadn’t fixed the problem. He hasn’t even called back.

Laurence hits the monitor and the fuzz on the screen disappears. He then tosses his money towards Ryan before taking his taco, leans on his chair and starts eating.

“Besht. Tacosh. Ever.” Ryan blubbers.

The man is exaggerating (they aren’t the best tacos ever), but they’re good enough. And he _is_ hungry; the last time he ate was almost five hours ago.

Laurence absent-mindedly chews on his food as he stares at the monitor. Sometimes, he wonders why the client would specifically want an Active from Los Angeles, but would insist that the programming be made by the Washington House. Would there be an obvious difference (so to speak)?

But then, the client is an excessively rich (and probably insecure) man; he can request whatever damn thing he wants.

He reaches for his iced tea when he notices something off with Juliet’s statistics. He looks (really looks) at the monitor and curses under his breath when the static comes back again.

“What’s wrong, Dom?” he hears Ryan ask.

He grabs his cell phone and calls Topher, but the call doesn’t go through. He tries again, using another number, to no avail.

“Ryan, call Torres from central. I can’t get through to the lab,” he says and turns on the GPS tracer.

A deep frown creases his face when he sees that she isn’t in the building anymore. “Start the van, Ryan,” he barks to the driver.

His tone doesn’t betray the fact that panic has started to rush through him. The spike on the monitor isn’t excitement; it’s fear and pain. Juliet’s afraid, probably even hurt, and she’s out of the building. Hell, looking at the tracker, she’s just gone out of their radius.

“The House is in a lock—”

“—just start the damn van, Ryan!” he growls and checks his gun.

~*~

The house is empty, eerily silent.

Laurence walks silently across the foyer, with his gun drawn. Of all places for Juliet to hide, she manages to find her way to this particular house.

He inspects all the rooms on the first floor (her coat and her purse are scattered in the living room) and, finding no one, proceeds to the second floor.

He checks the tracker. She's still in this location.

“Ma’am?” he calls out and cautiously goes up the steps. There isn’t a response. It makes him wish that this imprint had a name; it would be easier to seek her out.

He reaches the top of the stairs and glances around. There doesn’t seem to be a single soul here.

He checks the rooms, one by one, before making his way towards the room at the end of the hallway. The door is slightly ajar and he pushes it slowly, his gun still in front of him.

The room is a mess. The pillows, the bed sheets, and the lamps are strewn around, like a hurricane had just gone through.

“Ma’am?” Laurence says, even more cautiously than before. He doesn’t know what she’s doing. He doesn’t even know the parameters of this damn engagement, only that it’s ‘romantic, nothing hardcore, don’t worry about it.’ (He’s going to kill Topher later).

He sees Juliet in the corner, gripping a lamp without its shade. She seems frightened.

He slowly puts down his weapon. “Everything’s going to be all right,” Laurence states, rather gruffly, hoping it will appease her. He never liked the way she freezes when he brings up the word treatment when her personality isn’t calm.

She doesn’t make any move to put down the lamp.

“Juliet.” He hides his gun. Her expression turns that to confusion. “Ma’am,” he corrects, wincing inwardly. “Everything’s going to be alright,” he repeats, gentler this time.

She lowers the lamp slightly. “Now that you’re here.”

“Do you tr—”

“—I need you to help me find something,” she interrupts, turning away from him to rummage in a drawer.

The ease with which she dodged the protocol leaves him standing there without knowing what to do. She’s never done that before. He hasn’t heard of an Active doing that before.

He stares at her, observing her. Juliet retreated to this place when her personality was imprinted back into her; with a wholly different personality, she goes back here during a time of panic.

The doctor-prescribed self-fulfillment journey didn’t seem to have fixed the glitch. And he knows that reporting this behaviour would send her to the Attic. Laurence finally decides to let this play out, just to see where this road leads.

“Ma’am, what happened?” he asks, keeping his distance from her. “Why are we here?”

“Mr. Dominic.” Juliet turns around. “Please.” Exasperation and urgency tinge her tone.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “What happened.”

She puts a hand on her hip and looks at him. Her face is unreadable.

“Can’t you trust me on this one, Mr. Dominic?” Her tone is fused with dryness and she stares at him with an air of command. The imprint is a woman who gives out orders and expects that they be done, and paired with the crisp British accent, she exudes the aura of a woman who asks for what she wants and gets it. Immediately.

He finds himself relenting. “What exactly are we looking for?” he asks as he squats down to check under the bed.

“I… don’t know,” she says and resumes searching through the drawers. He looks at her almost in disbelief. He should have known that that would have been the answer. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Ma’am—”

“—oh, for God’s sake,” she snaps irritably. “Stop calling me ma’am.” She massages the side of her head. “Those people…” she breathes out. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. There’s something very wrong, Mr. Dominic. And I can’t work out what it is.”

This is _not_ good. They can’t let an imprint realize what – or who – they truly are.

“I don’t know what I’m searching for, but I know it’s here. I hid it in this house,” she continues.

He should probably stop this line of inquiry. “But why this house?”

“I live here,” Juliet answers, an odd expression flickering across her features. “I’m a researcher…” she trails off and disorientation appears on her face. “I’m researching…” she starts, but trails off once more. She looks at him again, her brows drawn together, “… enzymes.”

Juliet takes a step back, blinking at him, trying to figure out what’s going on with her.

Okay, maybe this is the time to stop asking questions. The flimsy explanation that all Actives are volunteers is being blown out of the water every time she answers his questions. He doesn’t need this. Not now.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” he says, reaching out to her.

She frowns. “Now that you’re here.”

“Do you trust me?” he continues, not breaking eye contact. Betrayal quickly flits by her face, something that shouldn’t even be possible. She doesn’t respond. “Juliet, do you trust me?” he presses.

“With my life.”

He nods his head, almost in relief and touches her arm. “It’s time for your treatment.” She nods and then he adds, “If you want, I can come back here and find it for you.” He takes her wrist, to make sure she leaves with him, and leads her out of the room.

“You don’t know what it is I’m looking for,” she says.

He shrugs. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

~*~

“I understand from your initial report that Juliet didn’t complete her engagement?”

He briskly nods. “Yes, ma’am. She ran off at around 3 PM.”

“Hmm.” Costley reads the file – most probably his report – and doesn’t say anything else. Topher’s behind the head of the house, looking grim and fatigued. Ivy’s gone home; after the events of the day (almost being sent to the Attic because she was made to look like the mole), he doesn’t blame her.

“Fear and pain?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looks at him. His first impression of Madeleine Costley was that she looked like the sweet, girl-next-door who knew that the right kind of make-up would imply otherwise. Right now, she’s looking more of the girl-next-door than the savvy businesswoman she projects.

She quickly averts her gaze from him and hands the file to Topher. “I’ll consider it as part of our mole-related incident.” She starts walking away, then stops and looks at him again. “May I have a word, Mr. Dominic?”

* * *

**IMPRINT: VICTOR**

He looks at himself in the mirror, thinking about Catherine’s reaction when she sees him. He arrived from London earlier than expected and he wants to surprise her.

Karen hands him a set of cufflinks he chose earlier. “My, my,” he admires the design first before putting them on.

He straightens up and runs his hand down his coat. She loves him elegant in a suit as much as she loves him out of one.

“I believe I’m done here, Karen.” He turns to his assistant. “You have my rose for Ms. Ramirez?”

“Here it is, Roger.”

He follows her out of the dressing room and into the waiting area. A man sitting near the door gives him a throwaway glance before looking back to what he’s reading. Ms. Ramirez is at the far end of the room.

“How do I look Ms. Ramirez?” he asks as Karen hands him a long-stemmed rose. “Thank you,” he says, smiling at Karen and at Ms. Ramirez.

He sees Ms. Ramirez roll her eyes. Oh, that woman, he thinks. She proclaims to everybody that there isn’t a romantic bone in her body, but he sees her reading all those romantic novels to pass the time.

“Ready to go, lover boy?”

He starts walking. “Yes, of course.”

“Bye, Rooooger.”

He gives a little wave goodbye to the mousy man in the lilac shirt and hurries to catch up with Ms. Ramirez. “This is for you, ma’am.” He hands her the rose, which she accepts without a word.

“I don’t get a thank you?” he asks good-naturedly. He knows she isn’t used to such flirtatious overtures, but he likes her and he thinks it’s a fine gesture to give her.

They’re waiting for the lift when she turns towards him slightly. “Thank you for the rose, Roger,” she says. “It’s lovely.”

He grins. “You’re welcome.”

After a few minutes, they’re up in the garage, walking towards the vans.

“Don’t even start; I got him on another Lonelyhearts engagement.”

“What’s that make, four?”

He buttons his coat as he watches the people Ms. Ramirez is talking to. A tall man with a deep voice with a lady wearing a very skimpy leather outfit.

“Five. How pathetic is that old bag?”

He stops himself from scoffing, “Ms. Ramirez pretends she’s jaded, but she’s got a secret stash of bodice rippers in the van. I’ve seen it.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Not true.”

He folds his hands in front of him. “She wants to be kidnapped by a pirate,” he says, almost conspiratorially.

“I know a guy,” the leather-clad woman starts. He notices that she’s holding a whip.

He turns to Ms. Ramirez and quips, “If only I wasn’t madly in love with my darling.” He gently places his hand behind her back. “I’d shanghai you myself.”

She gives him a look before glancing at the tall man. “I’ll take S&M Barbie over him any day.” She motions to him to follow her, “Come on, your geriatric princess awaits.”

They’re going to one of the vans when Ms. Ramirez suddenly stops and reaches for her leg.

“Ow!”

He looks back and sees that the woman in leather has flicked Ms. Ramirez with her whip

“It’s love. Show some respect,” she states. Of course it’s love. Who’s the geriatric princess Ms. Ramirez has been mentioning? He doesn’t have a princess; he has a queen and she’s barely into her forties. He glances at his companion, who straightens up.

He hides his smile and follows her to the van.

~*~

Ms. Ramirez drops him off at Mrs. Dowd’s house. He brings the lovely woman a bouquet of red lilacs – her favorites – and stays for morning tea and an animated conversation (she’s almost finished with her needlework, and the garden’s shaping up beautifully). After spending almost an hour-and-a-half in the kitchen, he heads towards the garage and hops into his car. He takes a careless glance at the black van parked outside Mrs. Dowd’s house before gunning the engine and speeding away.

He caresses the dashboard as he would a woman, admiring his handiwork. He restored this car himself, a project that he had undertaken as a de-stressor from his work.

After turning right from the main road, he passes through several stoplights and intersections before arriving at the busy part of the city. Los Angeles is very different from London and though he prefers his home city more, he likes Los Angeles’ energy.

He pulls into his usual spot in the underground garage and proceeds up to the laboratory. He looks at his watch; it’s not too early for lunch, he thinks, as he takes off his sunglasses.

He breezes through the hallways, saying a friendly hello to those who greet him. When he turns the corner, he sees Matthew Harding coming out of the lab.

“Matthew,” he greets rather suspiciously as he walks towards the doors. “Adelle despises people who hover.”

“Roger.” Harding gives him a sycophantic smile. “I’m not hovering; I’m supervising,” he explains.

He stares at the older man. “She also despises being underestimated," he says. He knows Harding personally; he also knows that Adelle isn’t fond of the man and the only reason she hasn’t walked out of this place is because she knows her work is important.

“We both know that woman can do whatever she wants and the company won’t bat an eyelash.” It’s a crude way of saying that Adelle DeWitt and her research are important investments for Rossum.

The smile on Harding’s face turns into a sneer. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Harding walks away. Puzzled, he turns towards the man’s retreating back. Harding never backs out of a verbal tussle. His sudden departure is quite baffling.

He shakes his head and raps on the door. After a few seconds, he hears Adelle call out for him to come in. A grin appears on his face as he turns the knob.

“Good morning.”

~*~

“Frankly, I don’t understand how Harding expects me to finish my research when he keeps transferring my assistants for other projects. One is in Norway, while my newest assistant is in Switzerland.”

He watches her huff out her frustration (although she might tell him, rather impertinently, that she doesn’t _huff_ ) as they walk towards their favorite bistro, merely a block away from the building.

“At least he’s not cutting your budget,” he remarks.

“And there’s that,” she says somewhat sardonically. “With all those missing extra hands and brains, I’ll consider myself lucky if I get to the final testing phase within the year.”

“Your assistants will be back,” he tells her in an assuring tone, casually putting an arm around her waist.

He feels Adelle look at him and he takes in the sight of her. She gives him a smile and he’s struck at how ridiculous it is that he keeps on forgetting just how beautiful she is when she smiles.

“I’m sorry. How was London?” she asks, changing the subject and leaning towards him.

“Warm,” he replies. “Unusually so.”

She sighs, almost wistfully.

“I miss home.”

He pulls away from her and turns, his fingers sliding down her arm to hold her hand, and he starts walking backwards just so he can look at her. “Let’s take a month-long vacation. Two weeks in London, and then we’ll go around Rome and maybe Paris?” God knows she needs a break from all of the research. “Or maybe we go to an island paradise. We could rent a villa and laze in bed all day?”

A soft smile appears on her face, which makes him believe for a moment that she’s actually going to say yes. “A vacation? That sounds nice.”

“It is. And it’s something that doesn’t involve wearing lab coats, probing under microscopes, or torturing those poor mice. It’s something everybody needs.” He stops walking and adds, “It’s something you need.”

She makes a slight face and takes a step forward to kiss him.

“I’ll think about it.”

~*~

“Addie? Is something the matter?”

She appears quite disorientated and he doesn’t know if it’s what he said or something else entirely. She’s staring at his hand.

He slightly tugs at her hand. “Adelle, what’s wrong?” he asks, gravely concerned. Adelle blinks and shakes her head.

“I… don’t know,” she replies and pulls her hand away. He feels her stare at his very soul before shaking her head. “It’s nothing.”

He gives her a skeptical look, “Really now?”

She doesn’t speak for a few minutes. She doesn’t even move an inch.

Finally, Adelle takes a sip from her glass of wine. “Oh, all right,” she says. She lowers her voice to a whisper, “I may have figured out what I’m doing wrong with the current formula I’m working on.”

“And how does it work?”

She smiles at him, albeit a little uneasily, and begins to explain that sudden hit of inspiration. A change of enzymes, she says, and if she gets it right, she’s certain it’s going to be successful on her little lab mice.

He’s not quite sure if she’s telling the truth (about that moment being entirely about her formula), but she has resumed eating. It’s her very subtle way of saying that she’s not going to talk about this anymore (whatever this is).

The silence lingers on for a few minutes. He tries to lighten the abruptly somber mood with a joke about their engagement, but it is only met with a small smile (in retrospect, it was a bad idea).

“I’m sorry, darling.”

She looks up in surprise. “Whatever for?”

“For whatever I said that upset you,” he earnestly replies. Because frankly, he doesn’t know what just happened moments ago and the only solution that he can come up with is to apologize. It worked before and he still doesn’t know what happened.

Adelle looks at him intently before she starts laughing. She reaches out across the table and touches his face. “You’ve done nothing wrong.” She rubs her thumb against his cheek. “Work has unfortunately overtaken my brain, love. I should be the one apologizing.”

He takes her hand. “Does this mean you won’t be staying for dessert?” He already knows she’s going to say yes.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I can’t convince you to stay?”

She pulls her hand back to her side. “Well, I _am_ in need of an assistant. If you’re willing…” she tells him with a twinkle in her eye.

“Sadly, this isn’t my area of expertise. I’d possibly be the worst assistant you’ve ever had,” he replies with a chuckle. “You’d curse to me high heavens. I'd perhaps even end up breaking more Petri dishes than you could ever imagine.”

Adelle gives him a teasing smile. “You? Break Petri dishes? I doubt it.” She puts the table napkin beside her plate and gathers her purse and coat. “I’ll see you home later?” she asks as she rises from her chair.

“I’ll be swimming in the pool naked.”

“I’ll be expecting that.” She kisses him on the cheek before walking away, but immediately goes back to kiss him again, this time capturing his lips with hers and in a way that’s making him wish that she’d just agree to skip work, go home and watch the day go by in the comfort of their bed.

“See you later,” she says huskily before leaving for real.

He sits in his chair for a few minutes, grinning like a fool, before getting the bill.

~*~

He's walking through the parking garage when he sees Harding standing by his car, clearly displeased, waiting for him.

“Matthew,” he greets with caution. He wonders how long he’s been by his car. He had taken a long stroll after paying for lunch, checking out some stores within the area.

“Roger,” the older man replies, looking at him with beady eyes. “May I have a word?”

He shrugs. “All right.” He leans on the hood of his car and waits.

“In my office.”

He waits for a beat, half-expecting the theme from Twilight Zone to start playing. “All right.”

Harding leads him to one of the private lifts. The elevator doors open with a ding and Harding bares his teeth at him, a poor attempt at a smile, before stepping inside.

The short ride to Harding’s office is tension-filled. He’s not fond of Harding and it’s not difficult to see that Harding isn’t fond of him either.

“What is it you want to talk about, Matthew?” he asks, the moment he steps into Harding’s office.

Harding goes to his mini-bar. “Adelle’s notes.”

“What about them?” He sits in the leather chair in front of Harding’s desk and looks around surreptitiously. For someone with Harding’s ego, the room is quite bare.

“We can’t make heads or tails of out them. I was wondering if you could take a look.” Harding turns to him. “Drink?”

He shakes his head. “I’m a businessman, Matthew. Not a scientist.”

Harding doesn’t say anything and instead walks towards his desk with a glass of Scotch in his hand. He then takes a seat and pushes a brown folder towards the desk’s edge.

He takes it and opens the file. “Is this your way of getting back at me for simultaneously withdrawing my support on your Rossum projects, Matthew?” he asks. “Because it’s slightly anti-climactic.”

Harding doesn’t say anything.

He puts the folder on his lap and browses through copies of Adelle’s handwritten notes. He doesn’t understand any of it.

“Why not ask Addie?” He tosses the file back to Harding. He’s smart, but he isn’t Adelle—

“Everything is based on mind, is led by mind, is fashioned by mind,” Harding starts, watching him over the rim of glass of scotch.

His mind buzzes and his entire body goes lax.

_“If you speak and act with a polluted mind, suffering will follow you, as the wheels of the oxcart follow the footsteps of the ox.”_

“How is _Addie’s_ research coming along, Roger?”

_“Everything is based on mind, is led by mind, is fashioned by mind. If you speak and act with a pure mind, happiness will follow you, as a shadow clings to a form.”_

— DeWitt; science isn’t his forte. “They’re her notes, after all.” He leans back in the chair and suddenly blinks and looks around. There’s something… off. Harding has polished off his drink, but he can’t remember seeing him drink all of it.

He looks back at Harding. There are hints of displeasure and impatience on his face. He looks angry even. Harding doesn’t say anything.

He keeps himself from looking at his watch. “Is that all, Matthew?” he asks with annoyance.

“Yes, that will be all, Roger.” Harding clasps his hands on top of his desk. “Would you like a treatment?”


	2. Chapter 2

**IMPRINT: JULIET**

“Ma’am.”

She blinks and takes in her surroundings. Where is she and what is she doing here? She glances back at the man in a nice suit. Her brows furrow slightly, but a sense of calm washes over her, and her confusion abates.

“Good morning, Mister…” She knows him but she’s drawing a blank. “Please forgive me,” she says and tilts her head to the side, “but I can’t seem to remember your name.” This is strange, considering that she’s very good with faces,

“It’s Dominic, ma’am,” he says, in an almost taciturn manner. “Shall we…?” he asks and motions to the door.

“Of course.” She slides off the chair and acknowledges the two other people in the room before following the man who introduced himself as Dominic out of the room.

As she walks beside Mr. Dominic, she becomes aware of the fact that she’s not wearing any type of footwear whatsoever. A quick glance at what she’s wearing tells her that she’s in her pajamas.

“Obviously, I can’t go to work looking like this,” she wryly notes. They stop in front of a lift and Mr. Dominic swipes a card on a sensor and pushes a button before turning to her.

“Obviously not,” he dryly replies, putting his hands behind his back.

“Where are we going?”

“Wardrobe, hair, and make-up.”

It is an odd answer, especially coming from him. However, instead of voicing her bewilderment, she quietly observes him as he looks straight ahead, waiting for the doors to open. He’s striking and she likes him—something of an oddity as she’s not the type to like someone right off the bat. Something also tells her that he’s a very serious man.

The elevator doors open and he lets her go in first before stepping inside himself.

Too bad; she’s serious enough for two people and she likes her men smiling. But she finds her gaze being pulled back to him and at first it seems that he doesn’t notice. But then, she realizes that he’s deliberately trying to keep himself from looking back at her.

A playful smirk tugs at her lips. “I don’t bite, Mr. Dominic.”

This gets his attention. “That’s good to know, ma’am,” he answers in a rather droll manner, which somehow reminds her so much of…. She drops her gaze down to her bare feet. He’s been away for almost three weeks and he’s not due to arrive for three days. She misses him.

The lift comes to a halt and the doors open once again. She lets him take the lead, walking a step behind him. She has no idea where they’re headed.

“Hello, Dominic.”

She hears a high-pitched male voice greet them cheerfully. She stands by Mr. Dominic’s left side and sees a man in a lilac shirt watching her.

“And who are we today?” he asks her as Mr. Dominic hands him a tablet. She takes a quick appraisal of him and no, she doesn’t need to answer his question.

He reads whatever it is on the device that Mr. Dominic gave him and whistles.

“Hello, Ms. She-Who-Has-No-Name.”

She raises a brow. Clearly, that isn’t her name, but it appears as though the man is content refer to her as such. She doesn’t mind at all.

“Oh, you. Always so serious. Give it all back to Mr. Dominic. Serious suits him better.” The comment elicits a small smile from her. Well, if she needs someone (aside from her) to put a somber mood in a room, she now knows who can assist her.

The man in the lilac shirt ushers her to the redhead beside him. “This is Tanya. She’s at your beck and call.”

Adelle steals a look back at Mr. Dominic before going with Tanya. He has taken a seat on one of the chairs.

He’s going to wait for her. She’s not going to dally around then.

~*~

“Are you certain we haven’t met before?”

She keeps her hands clasped on top of her lap. It’s been difficult not to stare at Mr. Dominic for the past fifteen minutes. She’s trying desperately to remember at what event she might have possibly encountered him. It’s the one thing that’s keeping her from noticing the bumpy ride.

“No, ma’am. I don’t believe so.”

Mr. Dominic’s sitting near the metal table, on alert. His gaze is firm and she can feel his blue eyes pierce her as she considers his response.

“You’re lying.”

If he’s surprised with the accusation, he doesn’t show it. “I would think I’d remember someone as…” he trails off, ostensibly uncomfortable with what he’s going to say next, “…beautiful as you, ma’am.”

“Then why do I recognize you?” she counters, her left brow lifting just a bit.

He shrugs. “Maybe I just have one of those faces.”

Adelle purses her lips. He doesn’t have that face – as he’s suggesting – far from it. She doesn’t accept his explanation, but she decides not to say anything.

They fall into companionable silence. She sneaks a glance at her watch. If they maintain their speed, she’ll reach the lab just in time. She’s hoping one of her assistants is already there, working on the research.

The van slows down and Mr. Dominic makes a move to open the doors to assist her out.

“Thank you, Mr. Dominic. Have a good day,” she tells him, bidding good-bye.

He responds with a terse nod. “Have a good day too, ma’am.”

She smiles at him and strides to her lab.

~*~

She has three research assistants and none of them are present. She is welcomed by the drone of the air conditioning unit and an empty laboratory.

This irks her more than she cares to admit.

She trades her peacoat for her white lab coat before making her way to her office and unlocking the safe to take her notes. She’s thinking of changing the targeted enzyme (which calls for changing the formula entirely) — it initially stops the deterioration, but they have to maintain its effects. It had occurred to her prior to change the targeted enzyme but…

Her thoughts trail off. She can’t remember why she changed her mind, although thinking about it, she’s quite positive this is the first time she’s thought of that solution.

Adelle sinks in her chair and reads her notes. She browses through several pages and notices something odd about them. She immediately disregards the observation though, and grabs a pen to start writing her hypothesis.

Now, all that’s needed to be done is to restructure the formula, extract a sample of an entirely new enzyme to test it on, and then watch the effects under a microscope.

She takes a sweeping glance at the empty lab adjacent her office and sighs. This would be easier if one of her assistants were here. It would cut the time in half.

Knowing Harding, he’ll probably keep on stealing her assistants from under her nose. She has a sneaking suspicion that he doesn’t want her to finish her research, thereby keeping her at Rossum. When she finishes this and gains from it financially, she’s going to break away from the company. She’s always had qualms about Rossum (they’re all colourful rumours, really. Although the more she stays with them, the easier it is to see that the truth is just as colourful), but they were the only company who was willing to finance her.

Maybe things would have been easier if she’d stayed in the stem cell business, growing body parts in laboratories. Most people put a premium on having the assurance that they can get extra body parts anytime they need, rather than have a healthy mind as they grow older.

Alzheimer’s proving to be a very worthy challenge. She can’t say she’s not enjoying it.

She rises up from her seat and starts the day.

~*~*~

“How’s the research going, Adelle?”

She keeps her focus on the microscope. There isn’t a slide underneath, but it isn’t too obvious from where Harding is standing.

“It’s coming along well,” she answers, her tone non-committal. She’s at the verge of a breakthrough, but he doesn’t need to know that now.

“How’s Roger?”

She looks up, baffled with the line of inquiry. Harding is leaning over the metal banister, watching her keenly, as though a king surveying his new land.

“Roger’s fine.” She takes a pen from the table and begins rolling it in her fingers. “He’s been in London the past several weeks.”

“Business is good?”

“You would know more about that than I, but yes.”

A wide and unsettling grin appears on Harding’s face and she feels the hair at the nape of her neck prickle. She puts her pen down and flashes a pointed expression at him. “Is that all, Mr. Harding?”

“Well, yes. I should probably leave you to your work,” he says and clasps his hands together.

Adelle forces a smile and waits for Harding to leave. When she hears the doors snap to a close, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head. What a bizarre encounter.

The buzz of the machine separating the threads of her formula punctuates the silence. She keeps herself busy by going over her computations. Her hypothesis is sound and she finds herself going back to her previous notes, curious as to why she hadn’t thought of it before.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Enter,” she calls out. It isn’t Harding; Harding never knocks.

“Good morning.”

The mere sound of his voice fills her with astonishment and elation. She looks up and her heart is all aflutter when she sees Roger standing by the banister, beaming.

“Surprise, darling.”

She rises up as he smoothly glides down the steps. He’s careful not to touch any of the lab equipment as he approaches her.

“You’re back.”

“Did you miss me?”

He stands closely in front of her, his lips just a few inches away. She catches a whiff of his aftershave and instantly feels assured and safe, and so very happy.

Adelle lifts her chin and kisses him. Three weeks feels like such a long time.

“What a silly thing to ask,” she murmurs afterwards. She gives him a pleased smile and straightens his coat. “What about you? Did you miss me?”

A devilish grin appears on his face and he slides his hands around her waist. “I can see why it’s a silly thing to ask,” he replies and tilts his head to kiss her again, deeper and rougher this time around. She responds eagerly, clutching the lapels of his suit, pulling him in and pressing her body against his. She hears him groan.

Suddenly a very insistent beep fills the air. Adelle reluctantly pulls away and sighs.

“What is that sound?”

She straightens his tie and rests her head on his chest for a moment before taking a step back. “Work beckons.”

Roger makes a face. “And here I was, thinking that I could whisk you away for a very early lunch.”

She prefers a late lunch, but he knows she’s going to give in to his request. “Let me fix this first,” she says. “Then we can go.”

He seems pleased with her response. “Do you mind if I…” He motions to the nearest lab bench.

“Oh, no. Not at all.”

He looks around and takes a seat on one of the stools. “And where are your lovely assistants?”

“Gone,” she replies and goes to her work station. She then looks back at him, still not believing her eyes that he’s actually here.

“You fired them?”

“Of course not. Harding stole two of them, the other one’s out sick.” His observation brings about a spike of irritation. Maybe she should pare the number of her assistants down to one; it would spare her the aggravation of absences.

“Do you want me to have a word with Matthew?”

She purses her lips. “You're pushing your luck,” she remarks as she switches off the machine.

“I think I can pull a few strings, darling. I still _am_ an investor in this company.”

Adelle studies him from a distance. He has kind eyes and this sometimes makes her forget that this man can – and will – take delight in mercilessly crushing an opponent.

“Thank you, but no. I can handle Harding.”

“Perhaps you can scare your assistants into staying?”

She chuckles and decides not to respond to him anymore, not until she finishes with this task.

Adelle takes a vial out of the machine and transfers a droplet onto a small slide for analysis. She toggles the microscope and studies the sample.

After appraising the quality of the sliver of liquid she’d extracted, she neatly labels the first vial and proceeds to take another one out of the machine to repeat the process.

It takes her more than an hour to finish the first batch. She transfers eight to the freezer and puts the other two for disposal.

She glances at her watch. So much for an early lunch.

“It’s fascinating, watching you work.” Roger remarks, his voice echoing in the lab.

He hasn’t moved from the stool and he’s watching her with a hand under his chin. The posture he had adopted makes him appear boyish in spite of the expensive suit. It reminds her of that time in Monte Carlo when…

Her line of thought falters.

_They killed him._

A wave of terror rapidly grips her.

“Your dedication is astounding.”

_Simon’s dead and they killed him. This is all a ploy for you—_

Adelle squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. The panic swiftly dissipates. When she opens her eyes a second later, she finds Roger walking towards her.

“Do you still want to go out for lunch?” she asks in a light tone, going back to her work desk to pick up her notes. Her brain is overworked and she’s hungry. Those are the only possible reasons for her outrageously morbid thoughts. He’s alive and he’s here. What would possess her to think of something so awful?

Roger flashes a quick smile, which almost makes her sigh in relief. He didn’t notice.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

~*~

“Let’s take a month-long vacation. Two weeks in London, and then we’ll go to Rome and maybe Paris? Or maybe you’d prefer an island paradise, We could rent a villa and laze in bed all day?”

She considers his words carefully. The thought is enticing. Four weeks of rest and nothing but him and her. There wouldn’t be any talk of work, of absent assistants, or of the interfering Matthew Harding.

“A vacation,” she repeats with reservation. “That sounds nice.”

“It is. And it’s something that doesn’t involve wearing lab coats, probing under microscopes or torturing those poor mice. It’s something everybody needs.” He stops walking and adds, “It’s something _you_ need.”

Dread inexplicably settles within her. Adelle leans forward. “I’ll think about it,” she says softly before kissing him, hoping that it will ease the anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

It doesn’t.

~*~

She loves the way he tells his stories. The tone he uses is always intentionally flat but his facial expressions are priceless.

“So, basically, this very large, drunk woman lunges at Rick, and…”

Without meaning to, her gaze drops down to his palm, her eyes seeking the long and deep scar he obtained from a minor boating accident a few years back. He was terribly self-conscious about it at first, saying that it was grotesque, but he became fond of it later on, when he discovered that he could use it as an icebreaker for potential investors (a product of a horrid shark attack, he’d jokingly say).

She reaches out and gently twists his hand. But the scar isn’t there.

“Addie?”

The scar is on his right hand. She’s touched it so many times, seen it every single day since it first marred his hand, and it isn’t there.

“Addie? Is something the matter?”

_Simon’s dead. They killed him._

A slight tug. “Adelle, what’s wrong?”

The concern in Roger’s voice permeates through her thoughts. She looks up and blinks.

_You can’t give them what they want._

“I… don’t know.” She gradually pulls her hand away from his. She gives him a searching stare, trying to look for an answer to a question she doesn’t even comprehend.

Adelle shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”

“Really now?”

She doesn’t answer him. She’s having a very strange day and she’s afraid that if she tells him what’s happening to her, he’s going to barge into Harding’s office and demand that she be given a month-long leave starting at that very moment.

Adelle takes a deliberate sip from her wine, stitching up the lie that she will tell to the man in front of her. God bless him, he can’t always tell when she’s lying. And in the case that this isn’t one of those instances, she needs to make sure he won’t have the chance to ask any questions.

“Oh, all right,” she starts, dropping the volume of her tone to a whisper. “I may have figured out what I’m doing wrong with the current formula I’m working on.”

“And how does it work?”

Adelle proceeds to tell him her epiphany, but impulsively leaves out a few crucial details. Especially if—

“If I get it right, there’ll be an immediate change in the mice’s behavior. On the other hand, it’s also possible that I might kill them faster.”

She doesn’t tell him that she’s confident about this new solution. It feels right, keeping this information from the person she trusts the most. It doesn’t make sense, but her instincts tell her that it will be better off this way.

~*~

The only audible sounds in the lab are the hum of the air conditioning unit and the sound of her breathing, which is a bit strained. A mild headache has started to throb at the back of her head, something she ignores.

She concentrates on her work. It’s surprisingly easy, rebuilding the formula. She can probably finish the first sample by the day’s end. If only her head would stop aching.

Adelle rejects the thought of taking medication, feeling the urgency to have something viable by the end of the day. The pain gnaws at her for a few more minutes and she finally stops working when her vision begins to blur.

She lets out a resigned sigh as she closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. Maybe she should take the afternoon off, she thinks, rubbing the base of her neck. The day has been very peculiar so far and she doesn’t want to experience what her brain might think up next.

Adelle opens her eyes and sees nothing but chaos.

Color drains from her face. The entire lab is in disarray. Black smoke rises up from the damaged computers. Shards of broken glass are scattered across the floor and the workstations. And her papers are strewn on the floor, some wet, some still burning.

Then, all of a sudden, blinding pain from the back of her head paralyzes her. Adelle blindly clutches her table for support. Her chest tightens, her muscles spasm uncontrollably.

_“We can’t get what we want from you if you’re dead.”_

She forces herself to open her eyes again and sees that everything is back in order. She forces herself to straighten her back and begins to look around. This is the first time she’s noticed the four security cameras installed in the room.

_Simon’s dead, this isn’t her lab and she isn’t herself._

And somehow she knows that knowing these things and (accepting them, whatever they are) signifies something bad for her.

_Then destroy everything. Don’t let them get anything useful._

Without questioning the thought, she rises up from her chair and takes all the samples to the sink. She dumps the contents of the vials in the sink before turning on the tap and letting the water wash away all traces of what she was working on.

_Now get out._

She whirls around and the lab is in shambles once again. She takes a deep breath and calmly goes to her workspace to take her notes before going to her office to take her purse and coat.

She doesn’t run. She goes up the steps and walks out of the door, acting as though it’s not an unusual time for her to leave.

No one takes notice of her and everything is going fine until she steps out of the building. Bile rises up her throat and her heart starts beating faster by the minute, making her dizzy.

She quickly hails a cab as her panic starts swelling. A yellow cab stops right front of her and she opens the door with a shaky hand. She doesn’t dare look back.

“Where to lady?”

The driver is eyeing her through the rearview mirror. Adelle blurts out the first address that comes to mind.

“And I’m guessing you need to get there as soon as possible?” the driver asks with slight disdain. Even though she doesn’t have a clue where she just directed him, she can tell it’s a bit of a distance from where they are.

She smiles grimly at him. “As soon as possible.”

~*~

 

“Ma’am—”

“—oh, for God’s sake. Stop calling me ma’am,” she snaps. She’s sick and tired of hearing him call her that every time he opens his mouth. “Those people…” she breathes out, massaging the side of her head. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. There’s something very wrong, Mr. Dominic. And I can’t work out what it is.”

Why does he have that horrified look on his face?

“I don’t know what I’m searching for, but it’s here. I hid it in this house.” They probably have it already. But she has to be sure; she can’t let them have it – whatever it is – it’s her leverage against them.

“But why this house?”

“I live here.” _She probably shouldn’t tell him that. What if he’s one of them?_ “I’m a researcher…” She trails off and scrutinizes his face carefully.

_Everything’s going to be all right._

“I’m researching…” she starts, but stops herself. She looks at him again, her brows drawn together. She trusts him, despite not really knowing him “… enzymes.”

He extends his arms to her. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

_“… don’t let anything awful happen to me. Watch my back, as they say.”_

_“Of course.”_

Adelle takes a step backwards. He’s different. She can depend on him. He’s watching out for her.

_But what if he’s not?_

She frowns. “Now that you’re here.”

“Do you trust me?”

She doesn’t say anything— doesn’t want to say anything.

“Juliet, do you trust me?”

_If you make a mistake, you_ will _die._

“With my life.”

A look of relief becomes visible on Mr. Dominic’s face. He touches her arm. “It’s time for your treatment.”

She hears a slight buzz in her ears and she suddenly feels cold, but considerably lighter. Adelle looks at Mr. Dominic and nods her head. Treatments are very painful, but she likes them nonetheless.

He gently touches her hand and she’s reminded of the way Roger took her hand a few hours ago. But this one makes her feel safer.

“If you want, I can come back here and find it for you,” Mr. Dominic tells her as he leads her out of the room.

She can’t hear that insistent voice in her head anymore. “You don’t know what it is I’m looking for.”

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

~*~

She takes his seat, something he isn’t pleased about judging from the expression on his face. But she feels the need to unsettle him and this is the most practical way of doing it.

Adelle digs into her purse and takes out her notes; keeping them close seems prudent.

“So,” Mr. Dominic starts, as the van begins to move down the road smoothly. He’s seated at the other end of the van, nearer the doors. “Can you tell me what happened back there?” he asks, finally. He looks at her warily, as though this prodding is borne out of necessity.

“I was merely confused, Mr. Dominic," she replies all too quickly, clutching her handwritten notes tighter. “There’s no need to worry.”

“It’s my job to worry, ma’am. About you.”

It sounds laughable – someone being paid to worry about her – but he says it with such seriousness that it seems to her that he actually believes it.

Adelle leans back on the chair and decides that it probably wouldn’t hurt if she tells him a bit of the truth. “I can’t explain it.” She takes a deep breath. “And even if I could, I don’t think you’d believe me.”

He crosses his arms across his chest. “Try me.”

And what can she tell him? ‘I’ve been hearing voices in my head that have been telling me that this day isn’t real; that I probably shouldn’t trust you’?

She stares at him. She does trust him, but she can’t tell him what she knows. Something also tells her that he doesn’t want to hear her answer.

Mr. Dominic frowns.

“I don’t know what happened.”

She breaks eye contact and gazes downwards. The man knows when she’s lying and the problem with trying to unsettle him is that he might try to turn the tables and unsettle her.

When it appears that that won’t be the case, Adelle flips through her notes for the nth time today. She focuses on the last page, where she wrote her hypothesis. The rest of what she had written on these pieces of paper – things that totally contradict the last page – is inconsequential.

Adelle traces the spine of the notebook. She’s done this before; pretty soon she won’t have any pages left to tear out.

Once she’s torn the page out, what will she do with it? She takes a look around the van. The computers are turned off and the metal table is empty, save for a folded newspaper. Adelle reaches out and takes a glance at it. It’s today’s crossword puzzle.

She tears the hypothesis from her notebook and crumples it with her left hand before taking her pen from her purse. She writes rubbish on the page and makes sure the solution is far removed from the actual answer. She does ensure, however, that what she’s writing has scientific basis. She doesn’t want them to think that she’s gone completely bonkers.

“Ma’am?”

She looks up in the middle of what she’s doing and finds Mr. Dominic watching her. She tilts her head to the side and raises a brow inquiringly.

“What are you doing?”

She waits for a beat. “I’m re-writing my notes.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

His cheek twitches a little, however his face remains expressionless.

Adelle shifts in the seat and looks at him with narrow eyes, realizing something. “You keep calling me ma’am,” she remarks. “You don’t know my name, do you?”

Mr. Dominic blinks. “No, ma’am,” he slowly says.

“I see,” she replies. She won’t ask why, though it is undoubtedly strange that he’s worrying about someone whose name he doesn’t know. “Adelle DeWitt.”

Surprise evidently flickers on his face but he recovers quickly. “Ms. DeWitt.”

“That’s better. At least now I know who you’re talking to when you say ‘ma’am.” She then goes back to writing her fake hypothesis and hides a smile.

After a while, the vehicle comes to a halt.

“We’re here, Ms. DeWitt,” he tells her. She likes the way he said her name, even if it sounds like he’s saying it begrudgingly.

Mr. Dominic gets out first and opens the door wider for her. She follows him out and waits for him to finish talking to another man in a suit.

“You should bring her back to the lab yourself. There’s a bit of a situation downstairs.”

After that short (and one-sided) conversation, they head towards the elevators in silence.

The elevator is designed to accommodate six people, but since they are the only ones in the garage, Mr. Dominic hits the close button immediately.

She turns to him and notes that his tie is crooked. Adelle brushes her hand against his suit and reaches out to fix the errant knot. “By the way, it’s endobiotic.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A parasite that lives in the host’s tissue. It’s endobiotic.” She pats the knot and adds, “Your crossword puzzle.”

He touches his neck almost self-consciously. “Right.” He makes a face. “Thanks.”

The lift stops at the imprinting lab. The boy from this morning gives them a tired (and rather anxious) smile.

“Come on, Juliet. Let’s have your treatment.”

Adelle glances at Mr. Dominic before taking a seat on the chair.

Today has been the most terrifying day of her life, but today, she fought. Today, she’s done something good for herself. When she comes back—

The blue lights flash and Adelle DeWitt’s gone.

* * *

 

He answers the question as succinctly as possible while Costley polishes off the rest of the Scotch. He’s feeling ambivalent towards the turn of events; it would be nice to get a promotion, but the position is – more or less – cursed.

“Thank you for your candor, Mr. Dominic. You may go,” she tells him after a few seconds of stifling silence.

He nods his head and quickly leaves. When he closes the door of the office, he sees Langton standing at the end of the walkway, watching the floor below them. Laurence glances to the side and sees Echo and Juliet sitting on the sofa, waiting. The rest of the Actives have gone to their sleeping chambers.

At least Costley thinks that finding a replacement for her chief of security is of utmost importance.

He walks across the bridge and joins Langton.

“How did it go?” Langton asks.

“I’m thinking she’s probably drunk,” he replies. Echo waves at them and Langton gives a small wave back. “Friendly girl,” he remarks. Juliet, on the other hand, just stares at him.

“And you got the serious one.”

He doesn’t say anything. It’s true; Juliet seems to be the most serious Active in this House.

“You think you’re up for the job?” Langton asks after a few seconds.

Laurence shrugs. “It has more responsibilities, but I think I’ll do fine,” he says reticently. Rumours have it that the heads of security of the LA Dollhouse have a very short shelf-life. Does he think that he’ll die earlier if he accepts the position? Yes. Will he accept the position? Probably.

He turns to Langton. “What about you? Think you’re up for it?”

“Well, I got through this day. I think I’ll do fine,” the older man dryly answers as he clasps his hands in front of him.

Langton isn’t a bad choice. The man turns into an overprotective wolf when Echo’s threatened in any way (serial killer, stalker fan, the Attic… you name it, Echo’s been threatened with it). If Langton can motivate himself to be half as involved with the new position, the house will probably find itself in good hands.

They stand there in that spot for a few more minutes, talking about nothing.

When Carter, the officer in charge of the security room during the evenings, approaches them almost thirty minutes later, Laurence immediately knows that Costley has made her decision.

~*~

He steers his car inside a seven-level garage and makes his way to the third floor. He drives around the level, looking for a suitable spot and parks his car at a corner, away from the prying view of the security cameras.

Laurence turns off his engine and waits.

Minutes later, the headlights of a parked car flash twice. After two minutes, they flash again. Laurence glances at his watch and stays in his seat.

He carefully makes a mental rundown of important intel to pass on. There are only two pieces of vital information that need to be passed on to the NSA, and even though they won’t be pleased with the first one, the second one will probably make up for it.

He takes another look at his watch. This time, Laurence steps out of the car and walks towards the silver sedan parked several feet away. His head is down, his face partially hidden by his coat and by the shadows. He walks silently across the garage, and with very little movement, slips into the backseat of the car.

Laurence sits directly behind the driver’s seat and looks at the rearview mirror. Charles Cooper, his NSA handler, is looking somberly at him.

“How are things on your side?”

He leans back in his seat. “There’s been a change in management.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I got passed over for the position. Boyd Langton’s the new Head of Security.”

“Any signs that you’ve been compromised?”

Laurence shakes his head. “No.”

“And Sterling?”

“Costley sent him to the Attic.”

Cooper grunts in response. No one knows what happens to the people in the Attic. According to Topher, anyone who goes in, never gets out.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I found Adelle DeWitt.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“She’s real?”

His mouth twists into a frown. “She’s been imprinted into my Active at least five times in the past six months. The wedge comes from Washington and her engagements are being flagged as romantic engagements.”

“You still think she’s an actual, honest-to-goodness, human being?”

“The guys upstairs think she’s real.”

“They think the formula’s real, not her,” his handler retorts. “You have anything concrete?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet, but I have a few leads.”

“Well, put your plans back in the can. I want you to lay low for a while.

“For how long?”

“Six months.”

A flash of annoyance crosses his face, which quickly disappears. Cooper doesn’t want him to contact the agency for six months. “All right,” he says, as though he has a choice.

“I mean it, Agent Dominic.”

Six months is a long time. A lot can happen in six months. “Yes, sir.”

Laurence opens the door of the car and steps out. He’s barely five steps away when the sedan’s engine roars to life and screeches away.

He walks back to his car.

 

 

FIN


End file.
